


War Endless War

by ariadnes_string



Category: Birdsong (BBC 2012)
Genre: Canon Gay Character, M/M, Porn Battle, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-12
Updated: 2012-02-12
Packaged: 2017-10-31 00:44:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/338043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ariadnes_string/pseuds/ariadnes_string
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"What did you mean, it's not for you?" Stephen asks.  He can hear the edge in his voice sharper than the knife in his pocket.</p>
            </blockquote>





	War Endless War

**Author's Note:**

> For Porn Battle XIII (Lucky Thirteen). The prompts were: first time, virgin, trauma, loss, comfort.
> 
> Title from the _Aeneid_ Book 4.

When Stephen stumbles out of the girl’s room, face red, eyes burning, hands still clenched into fists, Weir takes one look at him, gets a hand under his elbow, and steers him out the door, coins clattering on the old woman’s table.

He doesn’t say a word as they make their unsteady way along the dark cobbled streets, but God, Stephen wants him to, wants him to say something, anything, that Stephen can ridicule, take apart, rail against. His anger, his despair is still hot within him, not blunted at all by their wretched attempt to pay for sex. Weir’s cowed, shamefaced silence is more than enough to earn him a share of Stephen’s fury, though Stephen knows he’s done nothing to deserve it. This night, this whole bloody night, is Stephen’s fault.

“What did you mean, it’s not for you?” he asks, and can hear the edge in his voice sharper than the knife in his pocket.

Weir just shakes his head, mournful, reticent. It’s galling beyond belief.

“I said, what the fuck did you mean, it’s not for you?”

And before Weir can demur again, before Stephen even realizes what he’s doing, he’s slammed Weir into the stucco wall of a darkened building. How can anyone who’s spent so many years as a soldier be so soft, he thinks, because Weir puts up no resistance, just lolls his head against the wall and almost sags into Stephen’s hands.

The street they’re in is almost an alley, filled with the sour, wartime smell of too much untended rubbish, too many animals gone feral.

Even the smell stokes his anger, and he thinks about getting out the knife again, but decides it’ll feel better to use his hands. He grabs Weir’s jaw and drags his head around so they’re face to face.

“What’s the matter?” he says. “Need some practice?” And kisses him.

It’s strange to kiss this mouth, that he’s seen joking, crying, puking, shouting for all these years— familiar and unfamiliar, foreign and well-known. Not soft, not small, not laughing. Not Isabelle.

Weir keeps his lips slack, neutral—but he doesn’t pull away either—and Stephen presses farther in, trying for a response, the more combative the better. He’d give anything for an honest fight right now.

When he doesn’t get it, he pins Weir to the wall with his body and starts to fumble with the fastenings of his trousers.

“Can’t have you dying a virgin,” he says, and Christ he’s hard already, just from the violence of it, and hating himself for that just gets him harder.

“Wraysford,” Weir mumbles against his neck—or at least that’s what Stephen thinks he says, the Welsh seems to be blurring his voice even more than usual.

And then he does the last thing Stephen expects. He put his hands over Stephen’s, working at the belt buckle.

“Let me,” Weir says, and this time his words are clear as a bell.

Stephen stills with the shock of it. Lets Weir push a hand past his underclothes, cup his arse to pull him closer. Then his other hand is closing around Stephen’s cock, which jumps at the touch, but then quiets, enjoying the sureness of Weir’s hand on the shaft, his thumb over the slit.

And now it’s Stephen almost collapsing into him, the wall pretty much the only thing holding them up. He’s worried him might be clinging, because Weir’s mouth is suddenly close to his ear, murmuring some kind of incomprehensible Welsh endearments as he works Stephen closer to climax.

“Don’t fret,” Weir says ( _fingers between Stephen’s arse cheeks, grazing his hole_ ). “Whatever happened, it’ll pass” ( _cupping his bollocks, squeezing_ ). “Just let go.”

And God help him, Stephen does, comes so hard it’s almost painful, here in the dark alley with his comrade-at-arms. He thinks he might be crying—it seems the signal attribute of this war to make him bawl like a baby—but it’s nothing Weir hasn’t seen before.

“I thought you’d never been with anyone," he gasps when he can speak.

But Weir doesn’t say anything, just cards his fingers through the hair at the nape of Stephen’s neck, pulls him closer. Stephen thinks he might hear a rueful laugh, but he can’t tell.


End file.
